


The Archangel in the Ash

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Series: The Bones AU [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Forensics, Gun Violence, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-02-08 05:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: In the midst of searching for more information of his past, Enjolras finds himself in a situation in which he struggles to recover from.When a body is found burned on top of a building, Eponine and Enjolras work together to figure out the motive behind the murder. In the process, they uncover more information and secrets than they bargained for.
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier
Series: The Bones AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1522889
Comments: 17
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

_“If we’re just below the surface, we’ll make it,” Joly says, holding the match in his hand as he and Enjolras press themselves against the backseat of the buried car._

_“And if not?” Enjolras asks, trying to keep his breathing steady to conserve whatever oxygen they have left._

_Joly hesitates; there’s a sad look in his eyes, his lips drawn into a thin line. “Then, my friend, it’s been a pleasure working with you.”_

_Enjolras dips his head, offering a faint but hopeful smile. “It’s been a pleasure.”_

_There’s no countdown, no one-two-three. Only the slow passage of time as he feels the strain for oxygen in his lungs, a feeling he would suggest was akin to being strangled. It takes forever for Joly to light the match, and when he releases it towards the front of the car, he thinks it’s floating._

_He grasps Joly’s free hand tight, bracing for the explosion’s impact._

_He doesn’t remember those following moments, only sitting in stony dirt and gasping for air with eyes open under a blue sky. Eponine is looking him straight in the eye, her own wide in concern as she murmurs words he doesn’t hear. She’s searching his expression, waiting for some marker that all is well._

_He’s alive, that’s all he can bring himself to understand._

_He sees just over Eponine’s shoulder the removal of Joly by Bossuet. Joly, other than the injury to his leg he sustained during their capture, appears to be fine, and while he appears more occupied by the relief at the sight of Bossuet’s face, he’ll be fussing over the wound once it’s all wore off._

_They’re alive…somehow, they’ve survived._

Enjolras spends that night at the lab, reclining on the couch in his office. Despite the trauma of the situation, he’s been cleared, while Joly is to remain in the hospital under observation because of his injury for a few days.

He’s told by everyone to go home, that it’s the best place for him right now, put a distance between himself and what he’s just been through—twelve hours of darkness and uncertainty, and mere breaths away from taking his last—but it would make little difference; he’d be thinking about what happened, either way. If he was in the lab, at least he had ways to distract himself by surrounding himself with work, had opportunities to sort through the terror his mind was still processing into other things.

He can’t get himself to relax. There’s the unsettling notion someone’s right behind him, and that someone is going to ambush him and attack him and make him defenseless and he’s going to end up buried again and he’s not going to make it out.

It’s why he can’t close his eyes to even attempt to sleep.

The lights of the Lamarquian Institute flicker on, signaling that the work day has started once more.

It’s about two, maybe three days, into this routine where Eponine pulls him out of the lab and to the Musain.

“You’re staying at my place tonight,” she says after her coffee and his tea are placed on the table. “Gavroche and Azelma won’t mind.”

“Such a measure isn’t necessary,” he replies, stirring his drink with no cream or sugar. “I need to get myself back into a routine of going home to sleep first.”

Eponine sighs. “And that’s not going to happen if you’re spending twenty-four-seven in the lab. You can sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t need watching, Thenardier,” he replies, irritation in his voice. _Just because I’ve been through a traumatic situation does not mean I cannot return to a state of normalcy_.

“I’m no expert, but lack of sleep causes issues with your ability to function, not to mention you’re going to have difficulty doing your job. Case or not, tonight, my place. No argument on this.” Eponine looks him straight in the eye, her signature stern expression spread across her face. “Oh, and I’ve already mentioned it to Combeferre, too, so you’re not getting out of it.”

“Just give me a few days; I’ll be fine.”

Eponine’s phone goes off. “No arguments on this one. Hold on.” She answers, nodding and murmuring a few responses, then hangs up. “We’ve got a case. You up for it?”

“As always.” Enjolras returns a curt nod.

"They were put here to make a statement, no doubt," Eponine says, staring at the posed corpse. "Reminds me of some religious imagery.”

“Reminiscent of a crucifixion, but also a scarecrow,” Enjolras states, gloved hands examining the remains, the stench of gasoline all over them. “I haven’t seen anything like this before in all the remains I’ve worked on.”

“What’s at his feet?” Eponine asks, recording the findings on her small notepad.

“Intestines,” Combeferre answers. “Disemboweled, most likely.”

“A horrible way to die,” Eponine says, wrinkling her nose. “Someone wanted to spill their guts.”

Enjolras continues his examination, hearing the clicking of the camera as Courfeyrac takes images of the scene.

“Caucasian male, late fifties,” he says, inspecting the skull. “While the intestines suggest the victim was disemboweled, we cannot be certain it’s cause of death. Courfeyrac can swab for particulates in the abdomen, see if they can at least identify what type of knife, if it was a knife, may have be used to slice the victim open, though its possible the fire may have burned away some crucial evidence. Until the remains are cleaned and I have the bones, I’ll be able to discern more…”

Courfeyrac moves out of the sunlight, which allows Enjolras to catch a reflection of something metal in the ash towards the victim’s feet. He kneels down and shifts through the ash, and picks up a thin brass chain with a pendant, covered in ash and blood. There’s an image on the pendant, but he cannot see what it’s meant to be.

“Enjolras?” Eponine takes a few slow steps forward.

“A necklace, it appears,” he says, peering at it before he slides it into the evidence bag held out by Combeferre. “Difficult to make any read on it. We can clean it up at the lab after swabbing for particulates.”

“Scarecrow position, the spilling of guts, my guess is this guy’s a rat,” Eponine says, circling the remains. “And based off the fact this is the roof of the Justice Building, means he may have been involved in some high-profiled case.”

“We don’t have all the facts,” Enjolras replies, getting to his feet. “While some of the evidence suggests symbolism, we can’t overlook that what’s here may purely be circumstantial.”

“I’m just letting you know how this usually goes,” she says, shoving the notebook in her pocket.

He takes a deep breath, then starts to gather his things to head back to the lab, when Courfeyrac calls his attention back to the remains.

“There’s something in his throat,” he explains, then taking a few steps back as Combeferre uses a pair of forceps to remove what turns out to be a folded piece of paper. He carefully unfolds it, revealing ‘My name Pierre Dumont’ written in red marker across the page without obscuring the writing in pen that was signed by an Auguste Leclaire.

Eponine narrows her eyes at the names, as if sorting out a familiarity within them. She shakes her head. “I’ll run those names, see if I can come up with anything.”

“Feuilly can do a facial reconstruction,” Enjolras adds. “One of those names may belong to the victim.”

Back at the Institute, the remains are laid out on the metal slab for closer examination. Combeferre works through the remaining flesh and takes it for drug screening. Feuilly begins his work on the facial reconstruction. Courfeyrac swabs multiple points and runs test on the particulates. Prouvaire begins his examination of the remains, noting some fractures on the ribs, as well as some cuts along the bones there.

Enjolras won’t admit it, and neither will anyone else; Joly’s missing presence is felt. His quips about various chemicals and bacteria to lighten the mood are absent. Enjolras half-expects to hear Joly’s voice after Feuilly coughs a few times to ask him out of concern if he’s ill.

_He’ll be back in a few weeks_, Enjolras reminds himself. _He just needs time to heal_.

_And you, shouldn’t you be taking some time off to do the same?_

“Everything all right, Dr. Enjolras?” Combeferre asks from across the platform, causing Enjolras to jump up and hit his head on the overhead lamp above the remains.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he replies, shaking his head as if it will rid him of the new soreness on the top of his skull. “Thinking, is all.”

“Anything you would like to discuss?”

“Not particularly.”

A pause.

Combeferre sighs. “It won’t do you any harm to talk about what you went through. It would actually probably help you.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Not from what I’ve seen since then.”

“Combeferre, I’m fine!” Enjolras snaps. “I’ve been shot at, I’ve been held prisoner for examining remains, I’ve been kidnapped and nearly cut open alive. I can handle and process the trauma of being buried alive, too.”

“Enjolras, I know you haven’t slept and that the only instance you’ve left the lab since was because Agent Thenardier pulled you out,” he says, setting down his reports. “What you went through…I know it’s messing with your head, and as your friend, I’m concerned, we all are.”

His breath wavers, and he can feel his hand shaking. “Please…please, just let me focus on my work. That’s the only way I’m going to get past it…It’s…it’s how I’ve always gotten past it.”

Enjolras looks up to see the disappointed but worried look on Combeferre’s face.

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Combeferre says, taking a few strides towards him. “Because I think you know as well as I do, that isn’t completely true. However, if you ever feel the need to talk about it, remember, I’m not too far away.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

Combeferre gives him a pat on the shoulder, a concerned expression in his eyes, then walks away. Feuilly passes him on his way up the stairs.

“I’ve run the facial reconstruction on the victim’s skull. Matches that of Pierre Dumont, just as stated on the note,” Feuilly says, passing the folder to him. “And that’s not all. The necklace found in the ash, I cleaned it up. I did some research on the imagery: it’s Saint Michael, otherwise referred to as Archangel Michael.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says. “I’ll be sure to pass the information on to Thenardier.”

Feuilly stands there for a few moments, as if waiting for more, and in most cases, Enjolras would say more, but there’s too much on his mind for that.

Feuilly nods and starts to walk away, only to pause mid-step. “I forgot to mention: your sister’s in your office; she brought someone with her.”

“Charlie?”

Enjolras has to blink a few times to make sure he’s seeing things right, having not seen his cousin since he left for college. The separation had not been on the best of terms, either, Enjolras still going through the issues that resulted from his parents’ disappearance.

“Yes,” Charlie replies, already sitting down beside Annie on the office couch. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it, Lucien?”

“Eight years, at least,” Enjolras replies, sitting down in the chair at his desk. “Is there something I can get for either of you?”

Annie narrows her eyes, shaking her head. “I think the better question is, are you okay?”

“I’ve told you before, I’m fine,” he says, the words coming out harsher than intended. “If I’m being honest, I would prefer if people would stop asking; it’s not going to change anything, nor is it making it any easier to move past it.”

Her expression softens, though her eyes hold concern. “I just don’t want you to revert back to what you put yourself through when Mom and Dad left. It was quite painful to watch, on top of my own personal struggles with the fact.”

“I’ve got my work to distract me; that’ll be enough.” He pulls the chair towards the cleared space on the desk, trying not to hide behind the computer; the last thing he needs is someone reading into that.

Annie nods, though he can’t be certain she’s accepting of the statement.

Charlie glances between the two of them, then takes a breath. “Well then, I suppose now is as good of a time as any to tell you that I have a message from your father.”

“A message?” Enjolras’ brows furrow. “He’s contacted you?”

Charlie nods. “Yes, though I can’t say how.”

“What’s the message?”

“‘Keep low, and stay out of this,’” Charlie says, the usual-cheerful voice Enjolras’ recalls from childhood turned into a clipped, firm tone. “From my understanding, what you’ve uncovered with your mother’s discovery has brought back old ghosts, and he believes you and Annie have made yourselves targets by digging further.”

“And he couldn’t tell this to us himself?”

“He thought his presence would only put you in more danger.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Of course that’s his reason; it’s only another excuse to hide his face.”

“Hiding his face and going as far as changing our names as children was pretty effective until recently, wasn’t it?” Annette chimes in. “It can’t be a coincidence that finding Mom and her killer is unraveling these things.”

“He didn’t contact us for twelve years! Where was he in that time?”

“Protecting us, most likely!”

A knock on the door pauses the argument. Eponine walks in, holding some files.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she asks, her eyes flickering between the pair on the couch and Enjolras, who gets up from the chair.

“No,” he answers sharply.

“I need to borrow you,” Eponine says, and Enjolras follows her to the floor. She pauses around the corner from his office.

“I take it this was too urgent to call me?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

“I did try calling you. Either it was off or you left it out of your reach,” she replies. “Which is why I’m here.”

She looks around, then lowers her voice. “I received a phone call from where Batamabois was being held until trial. Long story short: he’s dead.”

When Eponine speaks the name "Brujon," Enjolras picks up on the familiarity, though until the confrontation in what he would at best refer to as a poor excuse for an interrogation room, it doesn’t click as to why.

“Well, if it isn’t the daughter of the old wolf,” Brujon says with a bit of amusement in his tone. “Quite interesting you would visit after all this time. Daring to show your face to the rest of us now you’ve gotten yourself cleaned up?”

“I’d close my mouth if I were you, wouldn’t want anything to fall out,” she replies, sitting down in the metal chair across from him. “Though I suppose the shiv that fell out of your pocket, it was only an accident that it stabbed Batamabois in the chest and the throat, that gravity did all the work?”

Brujon sniggers, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re here about? Here I was thinking you wanted a reminder of your past.”

“If I wanted anything to do with that, I certainly wouldn’t be visiting you,” Eponine says, maintaining a cold stare. “What I want to know, is why you killed Batamabois. There’s no known connections to the Patron Minette, not even as someone who gave you a job.”

“The man was an arse; if I didn’t do it, someone else would have.”

“While that may be true, I know that’s not why you killed him.” Eponine leans forward. “So, who asked you?”

Brujon leans back in his chair, as far back as his restraints will allow.

“You have nothing to lose, nothing to gain. Whoever asked you likely knew this.” She brings out her voice of reasoning, the calm and serious tone dripping with sincerity. “I need a name, that’s all.”

“That’s not something I can give you.”

“Batamabois’ trial was vital in gaining more information on the whereabouts of Raymond Enjolras,” she explains. “Because of your actions, not only is that information lost to me and my superiors, but it’s lost to Raymond Enjolras’ children, who haven’t seen or heard from the man in over twelve years.”

“It’s a shame.” Brujon’s eyes flicker to Enjolras. “Sorry to disappoint you and Blondie here, but I don’t have any information to give you.”

“‘Blondie?’” Enjolras raises an eyebrow, disturbed by the name-calling.

Eponine takes a deep breath. “Give me a name, and I might be able to arrange for you to get a nicer cell.”

“And lower security? I’m not taking my chances. If I ratted the guy out, he’d go after me easy,” Brujon replies. “He got in and out without raising suspicion to talk to me; he’d do it again, too, under different pretenses.”

Eponine turns back to Enjolras, her signal she’s out of ideas. He nods back to her. She gets up from her chair and walks out the door, pausing to wait for Enjolras.

“I’ve got this though: perhaps Fortier doesn’t want to be found.”

Enjolras pauses in the doorway and glances back at Brujon, only Eponine pulls him into the corridor before he has a chance to respond.

Enjolras holds back from saying anything until they get back in Eponine’s SUV and start driving.

“He was there!” Enjolras says. “How else would have Brujon known that specific name?”

“That’s something I would like to know, too, but I doubt we’ll be able to find out until we locate your father himself,” Eponine says, keeping her focus on the road, momentarily gesturing with her head for Enjolras to pick up the files sitting between his seat and the console. “In the meantime, I looked up records on Dumont and Leclaire. Dumont’s been retired from the FBI for a few years now, before I came in. Leclaire’s an agent who was allegedly killed in the line of duty by an activist of the name Jack Pouliot a bit over twenty years ago; Pouliot is currently facing a life sentence for the killing.”

Enjolras picks up one of the files and begins to go through it. “‘Allegedly?’”

“The only reason I’m phrasing it that way is due to discrepancies in the medical examiner’s reports, the coroner’s reports, the reports filed by Dumont, who was there when Leclaire was killed…I hate saying it, but it reeks of something suspicious,” she explains. “I’m sure there’s unintentional mistakes, it happens, but the way it’s all presented…I don’t like it.”

“You’re guessing there’s a cover-up involved here?”

“I’m still trying to verify some records,” she replies. “I’m going to do a search of his apartment, see if we can find anything that may give us the reason as to why Dumont was killed, because something doesn’t make sense with him being killed now if he’s being blamed for Pouliot’s sentencing, even if something with the records is false.”

Enjolras looks through the file, finding pictures of the scene where Leclaire was killed, the multiple reports, the images of evidence, among court records and other information he isn’t quite sure what to categorize it as. Then, he pauses at one of the reports, regarding something about some missing weaponry left in a safe deposit box on Rue de la Chanvrerie, along with a police report regarding the robbery of safety deposit boxes at the location less than a week after Leclaire’s death.

_“Anya and Michel Fortier, who were known for working with a dangerous crew and robbing banks. Small jobs, such as breaking into safety deposit boxes is what they did. Sound familiar at all?”_

No, it must be a coincidence.

He continues to read through the file, searching for the names of suspects, leads, anything further related to the safe deposit boxes and the missing weaponry. Nothing.

“Thenardier, how much do you know of the weaponry stolen out of the safety deposit box?” he asks.

“Only what’s in those files. Why?”

He hesitates. “This all happened over twenty years ago.”

“Yes, so?”

“Over twenty years ago, was when the name switch occurred in my family,” he says, running the concepts and scenarios through his mind. “This…this whole incident, if what you speculate turns out to be true, what if, for whatever reason, this was specifically why?”

Eponine turns her head for a brief moment, concern in her eyes, then focuses back on the road. “We don’t have all the facts, Enjolras, and you’re a stickler for that. Just because we have these dots of information, doesn’t mean those dots connect.”

“I know,” he replies, staring at the police report. “However, there’s the fact my parents robbed safety deposit boxes, as well as the fact that these safety deposit boxes were broken into not even a week after Leclaire’s death. Then coupled with the fact that suddenly there’s multiple warnings from my father that all we are doing is putting us in danger, on top of the fact I was buried alive—”

“I’m telling you right now, the Gravedigger has nothing to do with your father’s warnings or anything surrounding this case,” Eponine says, her tone stern. “But we’ll find the bastard one of these days. As for now, let’s just focus on this case, alright? We’re going to figure out what this means, we always do.”

The apartment of Dumont is spare. Few personal effects. It’s rather clean, aside from what’s maybe a week’s worth of dust sitting on top of the coffee table’s wooden surface. Appliances are fairly updated, stainless steel less than five years old. For a fairly clean person, this would be seemingly normal, but there’s an off feeling about the place that leads to Enjolras believing there’s something missing.

“Either a maid was here recently or he was hardly ever here himself,” Eponine says, peering at the bare granite countertops. “Even the sink is empty.”

Enjolras walks towards a closed door in the hallway, to find it locked. “Thenardier.”

She turns her head as he attempts to open it again. She narrows her eyes as she walks over, then gestures with her head for him to get out of the way. He obliges, and she kicks at the lock, and the door swings back.

Enjolras has been looking at corpses in many states of decay for years. Some corpses riddled with insects, others torn and/or bent in a plethora of ways. Some with flesh remaining, others already picked clean to the bone.

But none of them have made him feel as nauseous as the sight of seeing four walls of pictures containing distant, candid photos of him and Annette. Pictures from floor to ceiling. And they are both oblivious to the fact they’re being watched.

And some are recent, very recent. As recent as the evening he returned to the lab after having been buried alive. Then one of his sister that was dated only the day before, with her walking out of a local café with who he guessed was one of her friends.

While absorbing the sight before him, Eponine had meanwhile taken notice of a small selection of photographs grouped together, lines drawn on them in marker. She lets out a shaky exhale, which is enough to capture his attention as she goes and points the said pictures out to him.

“He was figuring out the range and angles,” she says, tracing the lines.

“What do you mean?”

“These drawn lines…I’ve used a similar method myself back in the armed forces…to plan kill shots.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of this AU, "Interlude: The Comfort in the Kitchen," fits in between scenes 2 and 3 of this section.

_While absorbing the sight before him, Eponine had meanwhile taken notice of a small selection of photographs grouped together, lines drawn on them in marker. She lets out a shaky exhale, which is enough to capture his attention as she goes and points the said pictures out to him._

_“He was figuring out the range and angles.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“These drawn lines…I’ve used a similar method myself back in the armed forces…to plan kill shots.”_

“I think for now, it’s best for you and your sister to lay low, perhaps not go home for awhile,” Eponine suggests to Enjolras and Annie while they sit in her office. “Dumont may have not been acting alone, and if you two are targets, any place too familiar will likely result in your demises.”

“What are we being targeted for? It doesn’t make any sense to go after a pair of siblings without a cause,” Enjolras says.

“You yourself had thoughts that perhaps the robbery of the safety deposit boxes containing the missing weaponry may have ties as to why your parents went as far as creating new identities while laying low,” Eponine replies. “I think it’s a safe possibility that the reason lies somewhere there.”

“But why go after us?” Annette asks. “We have nothing to do with this.”

Eponine shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve got two thoughts on that: one being you’re the children of the suspects and by targeting you, they’ll draw them out, two being whoever is threatening you, thinks you know something that threatens them.”

“But we don’t know anything,” Annie says.

“Nor do we have access to the missing weaponry that our parents may have stolen out of those boxes,” Enjolras adds.

“But those going after you might not be aware of that.” Eponine picks up a file from her desk and lays it out on the coffee table. “Enjolras, I know you mentioned that Feuilly discovered the necklace found on the scene was that of Archangel Michael.”

“Yes, and?”

“Well, I looked though the criminal files of your parents again. The pendant, it’s a calling card.” Eponine points to a set of images. “Rochelle Sauveterre, codename Jophiel, deceased. Ben Topher, codename Zadkiel, deceased. Patrick Eld, codename Chamuel, deceased. Henrik Blanche, codename Uriel, deceased. Violette Lyon, codename Raphael, deceased. Anya Fortier, codename Gabriel, deceased. Michel Fortier, codename Michael, unknown.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes at the image of his father. While the photograph appears to be taken a far distance and likely without consent, there’s a threatening, knowing look in his father’s eyes as he stares into the camera, a pen in his left hand as he stopped writing in what must be a journal of some kind.

“Michael and Michel?” Annie says with a snort. “Might as well just straight up used his name.”

“I had a similar thought,” Eponine replies. “Doesn’t hide one very well.”

“These were all people our parents worked with?” Enjolras asks. “And they’re all dead with the exception of our father?”

“Yes. All killed in a similar manner, too, long range bullet to the chest, Anya being the only difference with a blow to the head that resulted in a subdural hematoma.”

“So Michael killed Dumont…” Enjolras says, running the information through his mind. “…and Michael… is our father…”

Eponine lays out a few sheets of paper across her dining table in front of Annette and Enjolras. True to her word, Eponine was making sure he’d get some sleep tonight, or at least make the attempt, having brought the siblings to the apartment she shared with her younger sister and brother. He wasn’t going to fight her on it, giving her insistence earlier in the day, now coupled with the fact the possibility loomed that he and Annie were still potential targets if there was someone other than Dumont after them.

“If either of you have to leave the apartment for any reason, you are not to do so without Agent Bahorel or Agent Thatcher or myself,” she instructs. “We are going to keep this to as few people as possible, need-to-know basis. Enjolras, as tempted as I am to stop you from going to the Lamarquian, I know that’s not an option given your expertise is still needed, especially if I’m successful in getting an exhumation order for Leclaire’s remains. Annie, unless there’s some extreme need for you to leave, you are to remain here.”

“I got everything I need right there.” Annie gestures to her travel bag in the corner of the kitchen, a laptop and socks poking out of it.

“Good. Safer that way,” Eponine says with a curt nod. “Note that either agent will be outside the door when I’m not here, so if anything changes, let them know.”

“What about your siblings, Thenardier?” Enjolras asks. “The danger Annie and I could be in, what if that extends to them?”

Eponine takes a deep breath, her eyes flickering downwards, then back up. “Gavroche and Azelma have faced far worse than what you two are facing now. However, considering this mess concerns your father and has dragged you into it, I am of the impression they are not in any danger.”

“What about Charlie? He’s been in contact with our father, too. How does that not put him at risk?” Annie asks.

“Because whoever is after you two is out to hurt your father. By targeting your cousin, regardless of the contact involved, won’t be enough of a threat to Fortier,” Eponine replies. While it wasn’t apparent in her words, there’s a hint of uncertainty in her expression, Enjolras notes. “Now, it’s getting late. Enjolras, the couch is yours for the night, and I’ll remind Gavroche and ‘Zelma to not be too loud if they get up in the middle of the night. Annie, you can take my bed, as long as you don’t mind sharing the room while I sleep on the floor.”

“Not at all, but I’d rather not take your bed on you,” Annie says.

“You are a guest, so I insist,” Eponine replies, then turns to Enjolras, a gentle expression on her face. “Please, try and get some sleep.”

“You were up, cooking borscht, all night?” Annette asks incredulously the following morning as she takes a bowl of the leftovers.

He nods. “It was a better use of my time than staring at the ceiling.”

“You’re still not sleeping.”

“I will, soon enough,” he replies, taking a sip of tea.

She rolls her eyes, a smirk on her face as she shakes her head. “I’m surprised you haven’t passed out.”

He shrugs his shoulder. He sets down his mug, then reaches for the spoon next to his bowl of cereal. He catches an amused glint in his sister’s eyes, and he starts to get the suspicion she got something else to ask.

“Have you slept with her yet?”

If he had had food in his mouth, he would have choked on it. Instead, all he can do is give Annie a stunned look as he fights to find the words to respond.

“She likes you, you like her. I’m not blind.”

Still nothing.

“You two work well together as a team, and she knows you well, probably better than I do.”

He clears his throat. “Annie…”

“I understand if you haven’t, since I don’t know if your working relationship permits that, but I know there’s something unspoken.”

“It’s a bit difficult to explain,” he says, taking a deep breath.

“If you’re allowed to, you could give it a chance…”

“Could we please not talk about this right now?” he asks, stirring the cereal. “I’d rather focus on getting this case put to rest than have the distraction of a ‘romantic’ relationship.”

Annie rolls her eyes. “Same old Lucien. Workaholic with no interest in frivolous things such as a romantic relationship.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “You’re smart; you’ll figure it out.”

Enjolras makes it to the Lamarquian with Agent Bahorel in tow, Eponine at headquarters making her case to Attorney Valjean for an exhumation order. Bahorel is a familiar face to Enjolras, having assisted him and Eponine in a couple cases before, and took Eponine’s role in an investigation when she had a broken arm after she had taken a bullet aimed at Enjolras. (To which he believes wouldn’t have happened if Eponine had just allowed him to carry a gun, but were he to make that argument again, Eponine would still be insistent on her decision.)

It’s Agent Thatcher, left to guard Annette, that concerns him. He hasn’t been around the agent long enough to judge him, can’t bring himself to trust him. The fact Eponine trusts him should be enough, but at the present, it’s not.

“That’s your sister he’s watching, isn’t it?” Bahorel had asked in the vehicle on the way there.

“Yes, and…?” Enjolras had kept his attention to the windshield from the passenger side.

Bahorel had shrugged his shoulder. “You’ve got that protective look in your eyes since the moment you saw Thatcher, the untrusting eyes from a brother concerned about his sister.”

“I haven’t met Thatcher before; it concerns me that a stranger is watching her. I’d much rather have him take me to the Institute and have you watch her.”

“A matter of trust, isn’t it? It’s understandable, I get it, but she’s in good care. He won’t let anyone hurt her.” Bahorel had glanced at him, then back on the road. “Besides, everyone is more concerned about you after what’s happened.”

_An unnecessary concern at that_, he keeps to himself, examining what appear to be stab wounds along the first and second rib bones of Dumont. The indentations were focused to the victim’s right, meaning the killer was left-handed. If he’s correct, one of the deeper, particular cuts would be cause of death. No confirmations until Feuilly is able to find a match in the database to run a few scenarios.

He notes the boxer’s fracture on Dumont’s right hand, caused when he tried to defend himself from his attacker, most likely. Depending where the killer was struck, there’d be noticeable injuries.

Bahorel remains on watch in the doorway of the bone room, glancing at him now and again. Enjolras hasn’t much like the process of being watched, and even more so in a space with one exit. Did such a thing bother him before?

He doesn’t answer the thought.

His phone dings, signaling a text from Eponine, and he hears a buzz in Bahorel’s direction, likely regarding the same subject.

“Valjean managed the exhumation order for Leclaire’s remains,” Bahorel says. “Your team will be examining them by the end of the day, and before the FBI gets to again. I hope this works to your advantage.”

“Is there a potential for conflict, Agent Bahorel?”

“If Thenardier’s suspicions are right, and there’s a cover up involved here, your team’s investigation could potentially uproot a few figures and have Pouliot’s sentence revoked. That, and Thenardier’s just put herself in the fire if this falls out.”

Enjolras sets down the rib he was examining to glance towards Bahorel. “Provided the evidence is there, there won’t be a fallout.”

“How badly does one screw up?” Courfeyrac says harshly, analyzing the fragments of the bullets that still remained in the slowly decaying corpse of Leclaire, mostly in-tact except for the leathery appearance of the skin that had sunken in if not having already rotted away. “I would expect coroners to know how to count. There’s at least three bullets. I doubt they missed the obvious one to the skull.”

“Let’s keep in mind the reason we’re performing this autopsy twenty years after the man’s death, shall we?” says Combeferre, eyes peering over his glasses to glare at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac murmurs something under his breath in annoyance, then continues on with his observations. “There’s differences in the bullet sizes here. The one from the skull and the abdomen, maybe a twenty-two caliber. Then one in the chest…from an M-48, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Feuilly might be able to do a reconstruction of the bullets to be sure.” Combeferre replies, then glances at the reports. “The reports here make no reference to the type of gun used to kill Leclaire, but there would be some record if there was the belief a sniper was involved here, someone other than Pouliot.”

“Which means someone dealt the killing strike and someone else shot him twice after he was already dead,” Courfeyrac concludes.

Enjolras watches the news of Pouliot’s release on the small television opposite his desk.

“An innocent man now free, but at what cost?” he asks, keeping in mind that he and Annie still have targets on their backs, and that whoever is looking for the missing weaponry and evidence is still a threat to their lives.

Eponine knocks on his office door, and he turns off the television as she walks in. She drops her coat on the back of the couch without ceremony, and sits down with a huff.

Silence.

“Great work,” she finally says after awhile. “To you and the whole team.”

“It wouldn’t have happened without you and Valjean,” Enjolras replies, pushing his report to the side.

She gives a small smile and nods, then takes a deep breath. “I’ve been suspended.”

“Suspended? On what grounds?”

“For pulling the rug out from underneath Deputy Director Robert Marchand and uncovering a twenty-year-old cover-up,” she replies. “I moved too quickly and apparently was ‘out of line’ for not letting the FBI do their own investigation before turning it over to the Lamarquian. Wasn’t even allowed to state my case before I was told to turn in my gun and badge. Valjean’s in hot water, too, for it. ‘Under review,’ he calls it.”

He glances at his report. Thenardier and Valjean would not have been risking their careers were it not for his insistence to find more information regarding his parents’ disappearances. If he had let it be, let the past remain in the past, listened to his father’s warnings, his and Annie’s lives wouldn’t be at risk…This is his fault. “I’m sorry.”

She narrows her eyes, confused, as if processing and figuring out the meaning of his words. Then, she shakes her head. “Don’t be. If there’s a cover-up involved here and its exposure removes the harm you and Annie are facing, then I’m all for it. I don’t care who I piss off in the process.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, then shakes his head.

“Besides, we’ve come this far. Who are we to turn around just because a few curveballs got thrown our way?” she says with a smirk, and the words hang in the air until her phone goes off. “Thenardier…Bahorel, slow down, what happened?”

Enjolras feels his body stiffen. He tries to make out the other half of the conversation, but Eponine is too far for him to her the muffled voice on the other end.

“Alright, alright. After they’re looked at, take them back to my place. I’ll meet you there. Just make sure you aren’t followed.”

He waits for her to say something, and a few moments pass before she says a word.

“Annette and Thatcher went to the café to meet up with Charlie. They were shot at long-range, but no one saw anybody. All three are going to survive, thank goodness, but it’s best we all meet to discuss the next course of action.”


	3. Chapter 3

"Lucien, will you stop that? I'm fine!" Annette snaps.

Enjolras pulls his hand away from the left side of his sister’s forehead, a deep cut from shattered glass covered by a bandage. There’s smaller cuts, scratch-like, on her hands, but otherwise, she’s fine, physically, at least. She got the least of it, compared to Thatcher and Charlie. The left side of the agent’s face is covered in white gauze and bandages, and a piece of glass near his eye had to be carefully removed with a pair of tweezers. Charlie, meanwhile, on top of the relatively minor injuries on the right side of him from the glass, received a grazing from the bullet towards the top of his head; another inch, and he’d likely be dead.

Too close.

What confuses him, is what does Charlie have to do with the cover-up? Sure, Thatcher was in the way to block a clear shot on Annie, but why Charlie? What does threatening him give to the person who wants to remind Michel Fortier the danger his family’s in if he doesn’t…?

Wait…

He thinks back to old family photographs, those taken at family gatherings. He puts together the appearances of his aunt and uncle in mind, trying to figure out the possible features any offspring based on bone structure. He glances at Charlie, trying to reverse the process.

Enjolras would have better luck looking at the physical photographs themselves. He was confident in his memory, at least anything past the age of five, but time causes blurs, and he could not confirm anything, not without the evidence in his hands, be it photographs, x-rays, or skulls.

He doesn’t ponder much more when Eponine’s voice reaches his ears.

“I think tonight’s events pretty much settles it: none of you are safe, not in the open, not at work, until whoever’s trying to keep this under wraps is caught and imprisoned.” She settles her eyes on him, Annie, and Charlie. “So for your safety, it’s best none of you leave this apartment. The two of you were lucky; you might not be the next time around.”

“You can’t just hold us hostage!” Charlie snaps, getting to his feet abruptly, only to slowly sit back down due to the headache he’s had since the incident.

Eponine glares at him. “I’m not forcing you into anything, but it’s your funeral.”

“And we’ll be taking shifts, then?” Thatcher asks.

“Given I’m suspended, I can’t give any orders, and what mission I gave you I believe no longer stands. I’m sure Marchand will give you further directions as to your new assignment,” she replies. “Don’t risk your careers on my account.”

Thatcher goes wide-eyed then turns to Bahorel. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Tell me what?”

Bahorel answers, “The director put us on suspension as well, for our goings-along in this operation. Apparently taking orders from a direct report, fairly reasonable, too, are not good enough of a defense. Supposed to ‘prevent such unwarranted shenanigans’ from taking place just because ‘a consultant in forensics has daddy issues.’ If Thatcher hadn’t been there, I’d have socked him in the nose. Wouldn’t have cared what happened to me after-the-fact.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Is anyone laughing?” he deadpans.

Eponine releases a loud exhale. “I’m sorry. The intention wasn’t there to have you two suffer with me.”

“Nonsense. It’s no harm to us, really. Marchand’s just frightened we’re going to find something that links him in this, I’m sure that’s why he did it.”

“Top it off with Valjean under fire, any records we could access…there’s no hope of that, now,” says Thatcher.

A pause.

“Let’s go over what we have. Regarding the findings of the Lamarquian, Leclaire was killed by a sniper. Could have been Dumont. If we could get ahold of a list of who else in the FBI had such a weapon at the time as well as the training, we might obtain a few other suspects that will lead us to who is targeting the Enjolras’ due to the missing weaponry.” Eponine glimpses through the small notepad in her pocket. “Fortier might already know, and I think it would be in our best interests to watch for him as well; he could already be going after them.”

A nod from both Thatcher and Bahorel signal an understanding.

“I’ll try to call in a few favors, see if I can get such a list that way, and once I do, we’ll all have to be on alert because as soon as I request that list, the channels it’ll go through will likely go by whoever’s after you.” Eponine glances towards Enjolras and Annette, then towards Thatcher. “For now, I’d think it’d be best for you to rest a bit, especially since you’re walking around with one-eye.”

“It’s just to cover the stitches until the blood clots,” Thatcher argues. “I can handle as much now as before.”

“I’ll take the first shift, Bahorel the next,” she replies. “Enjolras, first thing in the morning, check in with the Lamarquian, see if they’ve come across anything that might be of relevance.”

“Will do,” Enjolras says with a curt nod.

“What are we to do then? Be sitting ducks?” Charlie asks, one hand pressed to the side of his head where the bullet grazed him.

“As I said before, you’re welcome to leave, but it’s your funeral.” Eponine gestures to the apartment door.

Charlie huffs, but gives no further argument.

Enjolras finds himself in the recliner this time. With the apartment crammed with guests, the younger Thenardiers occupy Azelma’s room, Bahorel and Thatcher in Gavroche’s room, Annette again in Eponine’s room, and Charlie on the couch.

He’s surrounded by darkness, save for the nightlights glowing in the hallway and kitchen. He can feel the heaviness in his eyes, but when he tries to close them for good, his mind jolts him awake.

He feels himself moments away from his last breath, sometimes gasping when he comes to. There’s sweat on his brow as he shivers.

Not to mention the sight of Joly and the pain he was in from the injury to his leg. And the blood…And so little material to try and get it to stop. No bandages, no disinfectant. Just a book, a pen, some water, and a mostly-useless cell phone.

_“If I don’t survive this, tell Bossuet and Musichetta I love them,” Joly says, pain-filled eyes amidst shallow breath._

_Enjolras sits near the wound, doing what little he can to repair it and minimize the pain. The panic is clear in voice, as he tries to keep it even. “You will tell them that yourself. Thenardier, Combeferre, Feuilly, they’ll find us. They will.”_

_“Leave a note for Thenardier,” he suggests, gesturing to the book. “Admit it since it’s unlikely you’ll see her again.”_

_“Don’t be like Grantaire right now.” Enjolras narrows his eyes. “None of the major arteries were severed, but this compound fracture will take some time to heal.”_

_Joly scoffs, amusement in his eyes. “Will you stop being so dense?”_

_“Courfeyrac, now you sound like him,” he replies. “Between the limited amount of oxygen and the pain clouding your judgement, that’s the only rational explanation for such nonsense.”_

_“Perhaps,” Joly says, shrugging his shoulder._

_“You are not dying today,” he says, partly as a reassurance for himself. “We are not dying today.”_

_“There is only enough oxygen for twelve hours. You know this from what happened to those twin boys. We don’t have the time, we don’t know how long we’ve been here,” Joly says, his eyes focusing on Enjolras’ expression and away from the leg wound. “The Gravedigger was only after you, I’m just an accident.”_

_“If you are saying this to make me kill you so I have more time, it isn’t going to work.”_

_“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”_

_“Doesn’t matter. They will find us,” he says. “They will.”_

And they did, with just a few moments left.

He’s okay, they’re alive. That’s all that matters.

He knows this, knows he’s safe from that grave, knows he isn’t going to wake up and be trapped in that buried car. The only physical darkness he’s in is that of a living room at night. If he closes his eyes, when he opens them, that’s where he’ll be.

But he cannot convince himself of that, not well enough to calm himself enough to allow sleep to overcome him. Despite Eponine watching the door, there is the lingering fear he will be paralyzed and attacked and with nothing to do about it.

All logic states he’ll be fine. So why is he so…so…against believing it?

“If you keep staring at the ceiling, it won’t burn a hole in it no matter how long,” says Charlie, who takes a deep breath from the couch. “I’ve tried.”

Enjolras turns his head in the direction of the couch.

“How many nights has it been now? Four, five?” Charlie asks. “You need help.”

“Says you and everyone else,” he says, a trace of annoyance in his voice. “I have little faith in psychology, so I have no reason to seek any help that surrounds it.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Lucien, let me try and lay it out as I’m sure others have. In the matter of a few months, you found out you aren’t who you really are and that you’re parents are criminals, you found out your mother was dead after working with her remains, your father has killed and has had people killed for him, perhaps for your protection, and you’ve been buried alive. Not to mention you’re a target due to things your parents did.”

“What you say is nothing new.”

“Your life has flipped itself upside down and backwards. That messes with one’s mind, and yours has been messed with a lot before all this.” Charlie pauses for a breath. “That accident when you were five, for one. Your parents leaving, another. I’m sure there’s more you haven’t mentioned to Annette.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I have handled worse things than what happened. I’ll be fine.”

“For someone who’s supposed to be smart, you’re being stupid.”

“It’s not your business.”

Charlie shakes his head. “Fine, have it your way, but you aren’t doing yourself any favors.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. He knows what happened. He’ll be fine, a few more days and this will seem like nothing.

_But the Gravedigger is still out there. What’s to stop them from coming after you again?_

If the pattern is of any indication, he will not be targeted again. As for the current situation, that is of higher concern, especially since they came close to having a funeral.

“Do you know why Fortier contacted you over Annie or me?” Enjolras asks. “To tell us to ‘keep low.’”

Charlie shrugs. “I’m not in his head. How am I supposed to know?”

“He’s called me before, knows how to get ahold of me if necessary. How he did that, I don’t know, but why send a message through you if he can do that?”

“The man raised you; you’d know better than I.”

_He isn’t who I thought he was, growing up_. “I know it wasn’t because he thought we would listen to you.”

“Well, I suppose that eliminates one possibility, then, doesn’t it?” Charlie shifts on the couch. “Can’t this wait until daylight? It’s 1 a.m.”

Enjolras lets a few seconds pass. “Do you know why you were shot at?”

“For being a messenger?” Charlie answers incredulously. “Honestly, what difference does it make? Good night!”

The blankets shuffle, and Enjolras can just make out in the dim light the form of his cousin with his back to him.

_You suggest it now, and he may be turned as upside down as you are_, he keeps to himself. _You say anything with no way to back it up, and if you end up being wrong_…

“I…it’s…” Enjolras stumbles on his words, then takes a breath. “Good night, Charlie.”

Another night, staring at the ceiling.

When sunlight starts to peek through the curtains, Enjolras grabs his work laptop from his bag and takes it into the kitchen. He sets it up on the dining table, then works on video conferencing Feuilly. When the other man’ face shows up on the other side of the screen, there’s a look of concern in his face.

“You still aren’t sleeping,” Feuilly states.

Not the greeting Enjolras was expecting.

“You have dark circles under your eyes, and unless you were up all night researching or studying remains, you wouldn’t be up this early,” he continues. “I know you were doing neither.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Not without help. I know you don’t believe in psychology, but you need help, even if it’s from a neutral party.” Feuilly takes a deep breath. “You don’t want to talk about it, you don’t like others thinking you’re fragile; I understand that, Combeferre understands that, and I’m sure Agent Thenardier does, too, but Lucien…you are walking down a dark path and if you continue on it, things are only going to get worse if you don’t act on it.”

“I don’t need to hear the lecture; I’ve had enough of it,” Enjolras says with irritation.

“My goal isn’t to give you one, but you’ve seemed to neglect the fact you have many people around you who are there to support you through this,” he replies. “It’s rough, but we’re not abandoning you.”

A moment of silence passes. It feels like one of those instances were they face-to-face, Feuilly’s hand would be covering his, grasping it, maybe.

“We’re here,” Feuilly says softly. “Please remember that.”

Enjolras nods, releasing a breath. _1…2…3_…_1…2…3_…

A slight smile forms on Feuilly’s face. “Alright, so now that that’s been said, what has you reaching out?”

“Thenardier was interested in any updates you might have.”

“There hasn’t been much since last night. Courfeyrac is still working on the bullet fragments, seeing if he can get prints off them, but it’s a long shot,” Feuilly replies, looking over at some notes on his desk. “While I think of it, how’s your sister and cousin holding up?”

“A few cuts, but they’ll heal. I think Agent Thatcher got the worst of it when the glass shattered,” Enjolras replies. “Charlie had a close call. The bullet grazed his head. May have a minor concussion, but will make a full recovery.”

“Not the best of things, but easily could have been worse.”

“Agreed.” Enjolras glances out towards the living room, able to see Charlie’s feet resting on the arm of the couch. He lowers his voice to a murmur. “On a related side-note, I need you to do a favor for me.”

“Of course.”

“I need you to research Charlie’s birth records.”

Feuilly’s willing expression turns to a blank stare. “Pardon?”

“In most cases, I would be certain about these things based off bone structure, and granted, the thought didn’t occur to me until after he was shot at, but I—”

“Hit pause on that explanation,” Feuilly says, as if still processing the request in his mind. “You do know what you’re asking of me, right?”

“I do, but with Thenardier cut off from her resources, I can’t go through her. Also, even if she did, there’s the possibility whoever is after us would find out about the inquiry as well, and with all that is going on already, I want to eliminate the chance of the individual not finding out if they don’t know already.” Enjolras takes a deep breath. “If my hypothesis is correct, then Charlie being shot at was not an accident.”

“Watching Thatcher and Annette…It’s just as bad as Pontmercy and the girl in pysch,” Bahorel says at breakfast after finishing his shift. “‘Let me get that for you,’ he says. ‘I’ll help you re-bandage your eye,’ she says. At least you two keep yourselves professional.”

Eponine turns her head from the files in front of her with her coffee at the table. “Excuse me?”

“Thenardier and I are not like that at all. Platonic,” Enjolras says, leaning against the counter with his tea. “Friends.”

Bahorel scoffs. “Yeah, and I’m in the CIA. The whole ‘we are not sleeping together’ act, if it wasn’t for the ‘I would kill and/or die to save the other’ part of it, would be quite convincing, but only to a blind duck.”

Eponine’s eyes flicker to Enjolras, as if expecting him to react. There’s a brief moment of eye contact, and Eponine gives him a small smile before going back to work.

“I saw that, I saw that!” Bahorel points to the two of them.

“Enjolras and I are not sleeping together!” Eponine snaps. “And what was it about being professional?”

“I said ‘you two.’ I did not include myself.” Bahorel takes a sip of his coffee. “Knowing you, Dr, Enjolras, I’m rather surprised about how well you’re content with the situation.”

“Annie is an adult who can make her own decisions,” Enjolras replies. “My opinion has no weight in the matter, even if I am her brother.”

Bahorel shrugs. “That wasn’t the impression you gave the other day.”

Enjolras turns to glare at him, and the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen stops him from firing a strongly-worded retort. Gavroche walks over to the cupboard of cereal and grabs a bowl.

“So you’re going to stop the serious talk now since a kid entered the room?” he asks, turning towards Bahorel and Eponine, then glancing at Enjolras.

“Work matters that do not involve you,” Eponine says sternly, looking up from her files. “Eat that quickly. ‘Zelma is taking you to school on her way to the university, and she normally leaves within the next thirty minutes.”

Gavroche waves a hand dismissively as he finishes preparing the bowl of cereal with milk, and then leans back against the counter with breakfast in hand. “It’s not that far out of the way.”

“Yes, but traffic is a nightmare at this hour, and she won’t be the only one frustrated with you if she’s late to class,” Eponine counters. “Don’t forget: you have your driver’s test next week. Combeferre will pick you up here at four today so you can practice. You’re still having issues parallel parking.”

Gavroche nods, in a similar fashion to one hearing what was said, but not necessarily committing it to memory.

“Driving already?” Bahorel asks, a half-smile on his face. “Wasn’t it just the other day you couldn’t reach the top shelves?”

The teen shrugs a shoulder, used to this form of teasing. There was truth in Bahorel’s words, though. When Enjolras had first met the Thenardiers, a few years ago now, the youngest Thenardier stood at around four and a half feet, twelve years old with what Courfeyrac had described as a “soft face.” Now, while only sixteen, stood at almost six feet, taller than either of his sisters by at least four inches, if not more, though still had traces of a youthful roundness in his face. Standing a full height, he and Gavroche were met eye-to-eye, though it was likely that would not remain the case for long, Gavroche still having time to grow.

“Enjolras, I have a test on the skeletal system for bio next week. Do you think you could help me prep for it this weekend?” asks Gavroche. “Rumor has it there will be an essay portion, and I don’t want to be saying tibia when I mean fibula or parietal when I mean occipital.”

“I don’t see why not, as long as there isn’t a case needing urgent attention,” he replies, glancing at Eponine before turning to Gavroche.

“Thanks,” the teen replies with a smile, setting his empty bowl in the sink.

“Any time.”

A few moments pass in silence as Gavroche exited the room. There’s another set of footsteps in the hallway, hurried ones, as Azelma goes between her bedroom and the bathroom to get ready. Annie, meanwhile, plugs in her laptop and start drawing using her pen after taking a seat on the couch while Charlie watches TV.

“He’s a mini you, or will be,” Bahorel says, turning to Enjolras. “Has he called you ‘dad’ yet?”

“No, and why would he?” Enjolras’ brows furrow as he walks over to the sink and refills his mug with water.

Eponine cuts in. “I think what Bahorel is trying to say is that he thinks Gav has taken an interest in what you do. And I can confirm he has. He’s still got a couple years yet, but his intentions are to study forensic anthropology, at least.”

Enjolras pauses, considering the truth within her words. He hadn’t taken notice of that before, only had taken the youngest Thenardier’s interest in the subject only as a fascination. Then again, in the few times Gavroche has come to the lab, he hasn’t cringed at remains like most newcomers. Eponine still has her moments that has her holding her hand to her mouth and turning away.

“He plans on taking advantage of some college courses his school offers, too, starting next year,” she adds, pride in her tone. “I’m glad for it. Were he still in foster care or with our parents, I doubt he would be.”

“He has had many good influences once you were able to have custody of him,” Enjolras says, placing the mug in the microwave and setting it for a few minutes. “You, for a start.”

Eponine smiles, her cheeks turning red, then goes back to the files.

“Oh, come on!” Bahorel says, glancing between the two of them.

She rolls her eyes, then her phone buzzes. She glances at the text. “Thank you, Musichetta.”

“She got the list?”

Eponine nods. She reaches for her work computer. (Fortunately enough, she has at least limited access still to some of the files.) “She also managed to get the list of operatives working the events surrounding Pouliot other than Dumont and Leclaire. Cross-reference those, and we may have our killer.”

“We don’t have solid evidence, unless Fortier mysteriously forfeits the location of the weapons,” Bahorel says, walking around the table to peer at Eponine’s screen. “Musichetta didn’t risk her career with this, did she?”

“She covered her tracks, knowing her,” Eponine replies, clicking and tapping the keys. “However, there’s a good chance that whoever is responsible for any of the cover up is going to know those records were pulled, so we have to act quickly.”

“Then let’s open the docs and go after the bastard, assuming Fortier hasn’t killed them already.”

What would happen if his father did find them first? He was responsible for Dumont, for Batamabois…with blood on his hands already, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again, would he?

Enjolras doesn’t know anymore. All he was under the impression of knowing about his parents was a lie. Eleven years of façades, this show of a happy, innocent, stereotypical family. His parents were nothing more than playing this deep game of pretend, playing roles that were intended to keep them all safe as long as no one dug too deep beneath the surface.

Was there any truth in his early years?

_“Your father, Michel, Raymond, whichever you think is appropriate, he did as he’s always done: protect his family.”_

_And look at how that turned out._

The microwave goes off, distracting him from his mind to finish preparing his second mug of tea before joining Eponine and Bahorel around the laptop. Just as he reaches them, Bahorel mutters something under his breath, then clenches his fist.

“Forget Fortier; I’ll take care of him myself!” Bahorel says, more audible. “If Thatcher hadn’t been there—”

“Then you’d be either facing a life sentence if not the death penalty,” Eponine points out. “Beyond the ending of your career.”

“What is it?” Enjolras asks.

Eponine takes a deep breath. “There’s only one name that is on both lists and isn’t dead: Robert Marchand."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a certain character goes against the intentions of the writer.

_“What is it?” Enjolras asks._

_Eponine takes a deep breath. “There’s only one name that is on both lists and isn’t dead: Robert Marchand.”_

“The Deputy Director who suspended you?”

“The very same.”

Bahorel huffs, then leans against the wall. “Well, neither of us can go to Attorney Valjean for a judge to get an arrest warrant, and were we to even attempt with Attorney Javert, he’d want the evidence first, which we don’t have until we find out where Fortier put it. And it’s not like Enjolras can call his old man to get the information.”

_Not that I would if I could_, Enjolras keeps to himself. _He’s been dead for twelve years_.

“Which means we might have to think off the books to get him, and while we’re at it, get Fortier as well,” Eponine says, closing her laptop.

“Are you suggesting lay a trap for Marchand, and hope Fortier will follow?” Bahorel asks, raising an eyebrow.

“We want our careers back, don’t we?” She glances towards Enjolras. “If we can at least get the evidence from Fortier, in the midst of this, I have no reason to see why we wouldn’t get them back. It’s a matter of how, though, we lure both of them out.”

“Having Annette out the open was fairly effective last time,” Bahorel says. “Marchand must not be as good of a shot as he used to be, missing the mark far off as he did. Then again, Thatcher was in the way.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, glancing out to the living room. “Annie wasn’t the target.”

A pause. Eponine and Bahorel glance at each other in confusion, then back to Enjolras.

“I would say Charlie was targeted, then, for being a messenger for Fortier.” Eponine’s brows furrow, eyes fixed on Enjolras. “But I take it you’re implying something else.”

He nods. “I’m fairly certain of it, but working on getting a confirmation.”

“Does he know?” she asks in a low voice.

“I don’t believe he does, if last night’s conversation is of any indication.”

“Annie?”

“I doubt she does. He’s not even two years younger than us; our brains wouldn’t have been developed enough to remember it,” he replies, taking a few steps closer. “If he was raised separately from us from the beginning, she wouldn’t unless our parents told her.”

Eponine takes a deep breath. “If that’s why he was targeted, that does make sense. Fortier would take that as a major threat, surely.”

Bahorel looks on, confusion in his features, then shrugs. “Regardless, what type of trap’s best to catch two birds? I wouldn’t put them out in the open, given last night’s happenings.”

“Neither would I, but Marchand isn’t going to come striding in to a conference room with us any time soon, and Fortier’s been clever enough to not show his face even to his own kids,” Eponine states. “If we want either of them, we have to figure out some place where them three, or a combination of two of them, at least, are in the open but still guarded.”

“But would they want to take that risk?” Bahorel asks, glancing towards Enjolras. “I get that none of them like being caged, but to knowingly put themselves in danger…Dr. Enjolras is used to it, but the other two, I wouldn’t think they’d be content. After all the fuss of ‘being held hostage,’ Charlie still stayed.”

Eponine opens her mouth to reply, only the vibration of her phone stops her. She glances down, reading the message, then mutters something under her breath.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks.

“That was another message from Musichetta: First, the local police want statements from Annette and Charlie; some B.S. that something happened with theirs from last night, while they have Thatcher’s. Second, Marchand’s MIA.”

“That’s a good thing then, if it means Fortier got to him,” Bahorel says, crossing his arms. “But it also means that he could be planning his next move.”

“Right.” Eponine begins to clear the table and put together the files. “Bahorel, you come with me to take Annette and Charlie to the station. Enjolras, I’ll leave Thatcher here with you just in case.”

Enjolras nods, taking a sip of his tea. “You think Marchand would try?”

“At this point, I’m not putting anything past him,” Eponine replies. “Just keep the curtains closed like we have been, in case his plan is to shoot through another window.”

“_Just in case you need it_,” Eponine had said right before she left, handing him a glock. “_I’m hoping you don’t_.”

With Thatcher out in the hall and everyone else gone, Enjolras takes advantage of the empty space in the living room. He pulls a few files from his work bag, and goes through the x-rays and 3-D scans of remains Prouvaire and Feuilly had sent him to his work computer of a few sets of remains in Limbo.

“_Because you need to be occupied somehow_,” Prouvaire had said when handing him the notes of each set of remains the day before as Enjolras and Eponine had rushed out following the news of what happened at the café. “_Do try to sleep, but if you can’t, at least you have something to do_.”

He smiles at the thought, opening one of the folders containing the younger anthropologist’s flourished script.

_Remain File FR-060532-CHVRE_

_Identity: Unknown_

_Location Found: Paris, France. 1st District._

_Date Found: 06.06.2012_

_Date Entered Archive: 02.17.2015_

_Notes: Originally housed in Paris’ Hugo Institute. Sent to Lamarquian due to shortage of space. Researchers in Paris suggest remains date to mid-19th century. Personal observations result in same conclusion. Caucasian female. Age markers indicate around 17 at time of death. Malformations in bones suggest nutritional deficiencies. Shattered metacarpals on right hand and abrasions on left second and third rib, occurred at death._

He takes a deep breath, opening the scans of this particular set of remains on his laptop. _Not quite the same as the physical bone itself, but it’ll have to do_, he thinks as he looks over the right hand, noticing an almost circular pattern of damage near the point of impact, the second and third metacarpals missing fragments, likely disappearing from time or never recovered when she was removed from her resting place.

If Courfeyrac or Joly were to…If _Courfeyrac_ was to swab for particulates, would he find traces of lead or gunpowder?

He skims over the file again, then looks at the images of the artifacts found with her. The remains of a belt, and boots so worn the sole was practically nonexistent. A decently-preserved piece of paper, whose inked contents had faded with time. The threadbare remains of a hat.

_Not someone of nobility_, he concludes. “Perhaps with some scanning and testing, Feuilly might be able to read the contents of the note…”

As if on cue, there’s an incoming video call from him, to which Enjolras promptly answers.

“Still up, I see,” Feuilly says, some disappointment in his voice.

Enjolras nods. “Looking over file _FR-060532-CHVRE_. Has Prouvaire made any further progress on any other remains in Limbo?”

“Last I saw him, he was examining some of the newer unidentified remains, but he did bring me another set to scan in.” Feuilly reaches for a folder on his desk, and opening it. “File _FR-060632-MNDTR_, another from the Hugo Institute.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, mentally notating the similar location as well as the file number. “If you could, send the scans whenever they’re done, as well as any notes Prouvaire has.”

“I will, though I doubt you’ll be finished with what you have by the time you’ll be able to come back,” Feuilly says with a slight smile, but there’s concern in his eyes. He takes a deep breath, then reaches for another folder. “Before I tell you what I have here, is there anything you want to talk about?”

Enjolras shakes his head, knowing exactly what Feuilly is referencing. He takes a deep breath of his own. _1…2…3_…_1…2…3_… “There’s a time and place for it, but not now.”

“Lucien…”

“Not now, Fabrice, please,” Enjolras replies, trying to not allow his voice to waver. He knows well-enough that Feuilly noticed him faltering, close to a tipping edge.

And who would catch him, when trying to focus on his work failed him?

_1…2…3_…_1…2…3_…

“Alright,” Feuilly says, the concern remaining in his eyes. “I…I did locate the files you wanted. Rather, Grantaire did.”

“He what?”

“He’s more skilled at accessing information like that without getting caught,” Feuilly explains. “I only told him it involves a case we’re working on, though I bet as soon as he found it, he figured out what was going on. He’ll be discreet, I’m sure.”

“Feuilly—”

“You wanted the records, I obtained them; you didn’t say how.”

Enjolras exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You wouldn’t have involved him if you didn’t trust him.”

“Right,” Feuilly replies. “You know, he has gotten better—”

“What did he find?” _Now is definitely not the place for that discussion_.

Feuilly gives him a mildly annoyed expression, then opens up the folder, holding up the birth certificate, and Enjolras can just make out the ‘Fortier’ printed in a few spots. “Your conclusions were right, and not only are there birth records here, but guardianship papers, the like. Once you’re back, you can look for yourself.”

“I will—” There’s a thud that occurs in the hallway, just outside the door, and Enjolras looks up.

“What was that?”

“I’ll call you back,” he replies, reaching to close the laptop.

“Enjolras, wait—”

He sets the closed laptop on the coffee table, and reaches for the glock on the end table. He gets up and makes his way next to door, pressed against the wall by the latch. The doorknob turns and stops, hindered by the lock, and he points the gun right where the intruder would enter.

There’s a muffled, frustrated sigh on the other side, and Enjolras takes a breath. If he stays put, he might be able to take down the intruder before they know of his presence. If he opens the door and if he’s quick enough, he might be able incapacitate the intruder and check on Thatcher, but if he’s not, he could just as quickly be dead.

_What would Thenardier do?_

If it was him knocked out, which guessing from the thud was likely the case (or so he hoped), Eponine would go after the assailant and then make sure he was all right. If his life was threatened, and it had been, that’s what she would do and had done.

And he would do the same for her.

He reaches for the latch, careful to not let the short chain fall against the doorframe. That left the deadbolt and the doorknob. Could he unlock them both without alarming whoever it was outside the door?

Probably not.

He takes a deep breath, feeling his heart in his throat, and unlocked the deadbolt with a soft click; the doorknob remained still.

He’s about to reach for the doorknob, when he hears the quieter sounds of someone trying to pick the lock from the other side.

He curses under his breath, unlocks it, and the door swings open, knocking him to the side as a figure walks in, but he manages to keep himself upright. He aims the gun, set to pull the trigger, then pauses.

No…it couldn’t be, could it?

The lines in the face were deeper from age, blond hair streaked with silver. A similar brow ridge, the stone-blue deep-set eyes, so like his own…

“Dad,” he says with a breath.

“Take One-Eye here and get somewhere with no windows,” Fortier says, gesturing with his head to the unconscious form of Thatcher. “Stay put until I say so.”

There’s a dozen questions running through Enjolras’ mind, including why should he being taking orders from a man he hasn’t seen in over a decade, but there is an urgency in Fortier’s voice Enjolras cannot bring himself to question.

_He has no reason to hurt you._

Enjolras sets down the glock on the small table behind the door, and goes to the common hallway to retrieve Thatcher. He picks him up from under the shoulders, and drags him into the Thenardiers’ guest bathroom, propping him up against the tub. He goes back to the living room to see Fortier locking the apartment door.

“I said stay put,” the older man says, eyes flickering from the door to the windows.

“I need an explanation,” Enjolras replies as Fortier begins to move items about the room.

“This doesn’t involve you.”

“It does, considering my siblings and I being targeted for information you have,” he argues, walking towards where he set down the glock.

“Which wouldn’t have happened if you left things as they were,” Fortier counters. “You found your mother’s killer, I thank you for that, but that is as far as it should have gone. It’s the inquiries after that brought them out.”

“You left us all in the dark!” Enjolras says, picking up the gun and turning the safety back on; he wasn’t going to go hide without any defense, not in these circumstances.

“For your welfare!”

“Changing our identities, fine, but what about Charlie, why separate him from us like that?”

The older man pauses after having laid a gun on the coffee table. He takes a deep breath. “That is a story we don’t have time for today.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of heavy footsteps in the common hallway has Fortier throwing a small leather case in his direction.

“That should clear everything up.” Fortier positions himself by the apartment door. “Now go, and stay there!”

Enjolras picks up the case from the floor, and notices the bruising on Fortier’s left hand. He hesitates. An injured left hand wasn’t so bad for a majority of the population, but with it being Fortier’s favored hand, if he tried to shoot…there’d be difficulty. Regardless of who it was that was approaching, he’d be at a disadvantage.

“Lucien, I mean it!” he snaps, gaze flickering between him and the door.

Enjolras takes the case, runs towards the bathroom, and tosses it towards the unconscious Thatcher, then closes the bathroom door. He goes back to the living room. “You aren’t doing this alone.”

Fortier grits his teeth, then shakes his head. “You’re as stubborn as your mother.”

Enjolras moves to the entrance of the hallway leading towards the bathroom. There’s a knock on the apartment door.

“Dr. Enjolras, I know you’re there,” the muffled voice snarls from the other side of the locked door. While Enjolras has never met Marchand, he takes a guess it must be him. “We need to talk.”

Fortier puts a finger to his lips, looking directly towards him. Then, he raises his gun in the direction of the door.

“Miss Thenardier thinks she’s clever, but she crossed a line. Stirring up trouble, you pulled her into it. Open the door, we might be able to fix it.”

Enjolras glares at the door, the handle shaking as Marchand tries to open it.

“You know what it is I’m looking for; tell me, and this can all go to rest.”

A pause. Some clicking.

Was the lock being picked? Did Fortier get the deadbolt?

Enjolras turns off the safety and raises the gun, pointing it towards the door; if Fortier missed the first shot, there was a chance he could—

The door swings open, and there’s shattered glass from the window as the first shot fired towards where Enjolras had been sitting moments earlier. Not by him or Fortier, though, as the older man remains unseen by the shooter.

Marchand takes a few steps forward, stumbling as Fortier, dropping his own weapon, moves to wrench the gun out of his hand. Enjolras keeps his cover in the shadows of the hallway, preparing himself to fire if he had to.

And could he? The last time he shot at someone, no one else’s life was at risk. Didn’t matter where he shot, just not to kill, for the sake of evidence preservation. With all the movement of Marchand trying to get Fortier to release his grip, if Marchand got control, could he shoot in a second’s notice before Marchand fired at Fortier?

The scuffle between the two soon sends Marchand into one of the end tables. The lamp that was on top of it shatters against the hardwood floor. Enjolras’ sight of the gun in Marchand’s hand, in the midst of the scramble, remains inconstant. Fortier manages to keep enough of a hold to point it away from himself, though not enough to wrench it free.

Marchand attempts to reach for one of the shards. Fortier removes one of his hands from the gun, grabbing Marchand’s free hand.

Amidst the two wrestling hands on the gun, a finger slips enough to pull the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot registers, ringing in his mind, but the path of the bullet was missed. A painful cry runs through the air, around him. Not from Fortier, not from Marchand…

From _him_.

There’s an agonizing heat towards his right shoulder. He drops the glock and reaches towards the pain, his hand staining red. He sinks to the floor.

_Keep pressure_, he tells himself, clenching his jaw, hissing. _Pressure, pressure_.

He takes a deep but wavering breath, trying to keep himself steady as black specks begin to cloud his vision. Scarlet droplets run between his fingers. The bullet, did it strike his subclavian artery?

The darkness enclosing around him doesn’t permit the opportunity to look; he knew he was in serious danger were that the case. He hisses, trying not to let out another cry, his empty hand nearly flexing into a fist, as a wave of anguish floods over him.

“You’ll be all right,” Fortier’s voice echoes in his mind. “Stay with me, Lucien!”

He looks up, vision coming in and out of focus, shadows on its edges. Blurs of the older man, holding something to his ear (a phone maybe?), kneeling in front of him.

Enjolras only hears some of the words. “Twenty-eight year old male…bullet wound…shoulder…lots of blood…Lucien…Lucien, stay with me!”

He manages another ragged breath, and the darkness swallows him.

“_You take care of him!_” comes Fortier’s voice in the distant darkness.

“_Hang in there, Enjolras_.” Thenardier. “_Medics are coming, they’ll be here soon. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine_.”

White.

It stings his eyes as his blurred vision comes into focus. White walls, white floors, the blankets of the bed.

His mind…there’s a haze he cannot put a name to; his shoulder, a dull ache; what medications did they have him on?

“There you are.” Eponine sets the book she was reading down and moves her chair closer to the bed, her expression soft but glazed with concern, with dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes. “How are you?”

“I…Fine.” He turns his head towards her. “How long have…have I been out?”

“Three days,” she replies. “You’re lucky no major arteries were hit; very close call, from what the doctor and nurses say.”

A pause.

Eponine takes a deep breath. “I saw the leather case in the bathroom. It leads to the contents of that safety deposit box, doesn’t it, or whatever was in there?”

“That’s what he said,” he replies, “or rather, it would ‘clear everything up.’”

“Then I suppose that’s takes care of that part. Not sure what’ll be put right, though, given Marchand’s dead, too. Found in the same manner as Dumont.” She removes a photograph from her coat, holding it out to him, and he recognizes the face as the man Fortier fought with. “Can you confirm this is who broke into the apartment and shot you?”

“Yes.”

She puts the image away. “I’m sorry you don’t get to see justice for what happened, but at least your family’s safe.”

“Right…” he replies, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. _It’s justice in Fortier’s eyes, though_.

Eponine lets a moment pass before speaking again. “Thatcher, Bahorel, and I got our positions back. The interim director gave us that news yesterday morning, given he saw no reason for the suspensions to begin with. Thatcher’s taking a few days to rest a bit after that hard knock on the head; your sister’s babysitting him, not that she needs to.”

He manages a quiet sound of amusement, smiling a bit, and turns his head back towards her.

“I suppose I’ll be babysitting you a bit, too; you especially won’t be doing much over the next few weeks.” She laughs a bit at her own comment, then, and it drifts off, a slight smile on her lips. Her eyes look into his, tinged with what he can only guess is concern blended with relief and perhaps joy…

And something else he cannot quite put a name to.

He reaches with his left hand toward a lock of her hair, brushing it away from her face with his fingers. His fingertips glide over her cheek, and she takes his hand, fingers intertwining with his. She leans in a bit closer and with her free hand, she touches his cheek.

A few breaths they remain like this. He searches her expression, trying to find what it is he sees.

The jiggling of the door handle has her lean back into her chair, hands separating, as Combeferre opens the door, holding it for Joly on crutches.

“Just woke up?” Combeferre asks, closing the door and moving the vacant chair for Joly to sit in.

“Yes,” Eponine replies. “After some much needed rest.”

“Agreed,” says Combeferre.

“A crazy week and half,” Joly says, sitting down and setting his crutches against the wall. “With what’s happened, I don’t know what kind of luck to call it.”

“We should be grateful, regardless.” Combeferre stands by the foot of the bed.

“Indeed,” Enjolras says, eyes flickering to the cast on Joly’s leg as his left hand goes to his bandaged shoulder.

Combeferre reaches into his coat and hands Enjolras two envelopes, one a soft blue, containing the flourished script of Prouvaire on it, the other, golden but smaller but bulkier, as if something other than paper was held within it, the handwriting on the front jagged, as if written by someone whose hand was injured…

“The one is from everyone back at the lab,” Combeferre explains. “The other was dropped off earlier today.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says with a nod, looking them over and then reaching to set them both on the bedside table.

“You’re welcome,” Combeferre replies. “While I think of it, don’t rush your recovery; Prouvaire’s handling it all.”

“I won’t,” Enjolras responds, a corner of his lip upturned. “I have confidence in his abilities for the interim.”

“Good.” He turns to Eponine. “Should we expect to see you back as well?”

“Yes,” she replies, her eyes flickering from Enjolras then back to Combeferre. “I’ll miss having a partner out in the field with me for the next month or so, but I think I can manage.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow, as if noticing something between them with the glance. He then smiles. “Once he’s cleared, he’ll be at your side within the hour, I’m sure of it.”

There’s something underneath his words Enjolras can’t pick up on, a sort of teasing, but he lets it go as Eponine gets to her feet.

“I should be getting back to the office; paperwork to file and some items to get to evidence,” she says, excusing herself, then turning to Enjolras. “I’ll be back later. Make sure you rest.”

Enjolras gives her a slight smile, and watches as she walks out the door, turning back briefly towards him as she closes the door behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration drawn from the Bones Season 2 episodes "Aliens in a Spaceship" and "Judas on a Pole."


End file.
